Madina Lake
by WalkingTravestyx3
Summary: Based on the wonderful band. The chapter names, and story title alike, are property of the band Madina Lake; i.e., Matthew Leone, Nathan Leone, Dan Torrelli & Mateo Camargo. The story has self-mutilation, cursing, lemons, and passion. Enjoy. 3


**Madina Lake**

Chapter 1. – Here I Stand

As the sun set, and the colors blazed over the evening sky, fading into one another, I layed on the roof of my car pondering what was real about my life and the people in it. This was a small town, with no secrets. Not even my smoke and mirrors act could keep up for too long. And at this point, I was all alone. Not even wanting to be myself. Leaning up, I looked over the lake the town was named after and stared at my reflection for a good long time. Heaving a sigh, I wrapped up my bloodied mess of an arm in an ace bandage. It served as my miniscule tourniquet, reminding me I was still alive in this life as the pressure sent the pins and needles feeling to the tips of my hand. I didn't want to die, I just wanted to know something about me was real. And if I had to choose anything, I was going to choose the most real thing I've known. Pain.

The night was full of laughter, music, people. A carnival was going on directly in the middle of our tiny town of Madina Lake. All the faces familiar, all the same I've known since I was a child. And as their eyes glanced into mine, I saw the same emotions ticking through their infaliable minds. Empathy, compassion, pity, and most of all, shame. Leaning against the post smoking my simple menthols, I looked around for one of the few faces that made this disaster home. I heard her voice before I saw her beauty.

"Matthew, are you okay?" My head swiveled slowly. She's gorgeous, unflawed, and tragically perfect. My reflection in her eyes shows a seldom softness in my features, all high, proud, and direct. My grey eyes look green in her blue hues. And my black and blonde shagginess seem to swing gracefully. Everything that reflects off of her suddenly becomes perfect. Even me, and my imperfect being. I smile, and go to take her hand, but something's off today. She pulls it back out of my grasp and grabs her own wrist looking down and away.

"Something wrong?" I ask softly, tilting my head in concern. If nothing else, my voice was as pretty as I got. Soft tenor, light timber, and musical. Hers matched, sounding like the tinkling of bells on Christmas, her favorite holiday. She bites her lip in a thoughtful manner.

"We really need to talk… about us." She murmurs. Even though her words are barely more than a whisper, they're loud and they clash in my head like cymbals smashing off one another. My hands are shaking. She's about to smash my perfect mirror against the walls of my heart. But then again I've found that this is how all women work with the meanings of your heart. I pull her out of the street into an alleyway. My mind is wracking over what mistake I could've made to cause her to seem this standoff-ish. "I know what happened with her… that girl. Pandora." She sniffles and I see the one bit of her I never wanted to see. Teardrops flowing like a river down her cheeks, running along her soft jawline as they drip and hit the concrete. I freeze, momentarily stunned. Even I didn't remember everything that had directly happened at the party, but I knew I had done something terrible and unfaithful. And I was going to have to pay for such a horrid thing. I think of anything I could say, do, speak to make this even slightly okay. But my mind isn't computing.  
"I don't even remember what happened that night."  
"And that makes it okay?"  
"No. But it never existed to me. And it still doesn't." I said firmly. Her eyes lock in mine. And she's shaking her head. She believes me, but she's already gone. She walks forward, she kisses my cheek.

"Stay strong for me. Be good. And forget that I ever came along." She whispers. Nothing is functioning anymore. Not my head, not my heart. Minutes pass as she escapes my grasp before one thing finally becomes of me. The painful outlet that I can only manage. A painful howl as I collapse on the street, nailing my head off the solid matter of the street.


End file.
